The Bonds of Freedom

Last week, I got a call from a woman who attends one of the meetings I attend. She was looking for a sponsor. When I shared, she said, she heard a lot of peace and not a lot of rigidity. That was important. She found rigidity unattractive. So I imagine she was surprised to hear my program is all about discipline.
A few years ago, I hiked the Grand Canyon three times. The first two times, I was well prepared, and I enjoyed it. The third time, I hadn’t exercised as strenuously. I had injured my foot and was worried that I might not be able to make the planned hike at all if didn’t give it time to heal.
The difference took me by surprise.
When I was prepared, I was the hike left me with a sense of accomplishment and wonder. When I wasn’t, I felt imprisoned by my body. I couldn’t focus on anything but how crappy I felt. And once at the bottom of the Canyon, there was only one way out. It was a misery.
I think of recovery as exercising my spiritual muscles so I can enjoy the journey. When I pray, meditate and do my Al-Anon readings first thing in the morning, my day go easier. When I do this every day, my life goes better.
I attend at least two committed meetings every week unless I’m sick or out of town. I have a home group where I take a service commitment and when the term my commitment is up, I take a different position. I write a gratitude list every day. I call my sponsor every week, and work the steps again and again.
I expect the same from the women I sponsor.
I do these things faithfully. Call me rigid. In my slavish devotion to this routine, I’ve become free.
My sponsor is fond of saying, “We are not bad people, we are undisciplined.”
Recovery gives us discipline.
I think of small children who are undisciplined. They are not happy children. The storms of their emotions blow them about; they are slaves to every feeling.
When I don’t do the things I’ve been taught to do in this program every day, I start to feel like an undisciplined child. Little things bother me. I’m restless, irritable and discontent. I’m not happy.
When you bring a baby home from the hospital, you always set it down in the middle of the bed so it doesn’t fall off. When I was new, my sponsor put me “in the middle of the bed” by telling me that she was very happy to work with me as long as was willing to work the program. If I wanted what she had, then I had to do what she did.
Over the years, I’ve seen what happens when people start letting these things go. They skip a meeting, a reading, a call. They get closer to the edge of the bed. And sometimes they fall off.
So I choose to stay in the middle, practicing my program with discipline. And the funny thing about that is that it has set me free.
I think life is a lot like hiking the Grand Canyon. There’s only one way to get to the other side. The journey can be full of wonders or it can be a misery. It all depends on my level of spiritual fitness. And takes discipline.

Hello again!

It’s been years since I’ve posted. But I’m still here, still working this program one day at a time. I’m not sure how many of you are still out there, but I hope you stop by to say hello.
I attended one of my favorite meetings today, a women’s group called Sisters in the Spirit. That was the topic of today’s meeting, and it resonated with me.
In my line of sponsorship, we get together for literature studies every other month, and as the chairperson was sharing I flashed back to one years ago. It was led by my great-grandsponsor, and there had to be 40 women in the room. I wondered what it would be like to be my great-grandsponsor in that moment, knowing that every woman in that room was there because she reached out to help someone else.
Over the years, I’ve attended a lot of open AA speaker meetings and one thing that most of those speakers talked about was the feeling of being outside of things. It’s one thing I have in common with them. I’ve always felt the same way.
My great-grandsponsor always began these literature studies by talking about her sponsor, and her sponsor’s sponsor and so on, all the way back to the woman who began our line of sponsorship before Al-Anon was Al-Anon.
It made me feel a part of something, something bigger than myself.
There was a lot of recovery in the room that night, and I felt like I was floating in a sea of collective wisdom that has been passed down through generations of women in this program.
My sponsor often talks about having a God-shaped hole. I had one of those. I felt there was something missing in me. I tried to fill it with all kinds of things: work, substances, relationships, especially. I dreamed about the man who would complete me. But none of those things filled that hole because only one thing was the right size to fill that hole.
I had a God of my understanding when I came into this program, but it was in Al-Anon I learned to have a relationship with that God, and my hole got plugged. As it did I began to fill up. God, as I understand God today, is a God of love. And that’s what began to rise inside of me until it spilled over onto those around me in the form of service.
When I got involved in service is when things began to change for me. It was the first time I truly felt a part of this fellowship. And the first time I felt I belonged.
I took meetings into prisons, became an Alateen sponsor, sponsored others. As I became useful, my life gained meaning and purpose. It turned my past into gold, because I could use the pain I experienced in this disease to help others. And I got to add some links to the chain of this beautiful fellowship.
Today, I can honestly say I am happier than I’ve ever been. I feel connected. And grateful for every minute of my life.

Au Revoir, Farewell

And so we come to the end.

I’ve thought and prayed about this for some time. Since I started this blog, my work has picked up dramatically. As I was leaving for the land on Friday, an editor e-mailed with two assignments needing a quick turn around. With these, I have five stories due by May 15. In December, having so many deadlines at once seemed like a fluke. Now, it’s beginning to feel like the new normal. After two lean years, that’s a huge blessing. But it takes a lot of my time.

My Al-Anon commitments have also increased. When I began blogging, I was just beginning to get involved in service. Today, I have five sponsees, prison service and Alateen commitments in addition to my committed meetings. That’s a blessing, too. Nothing has helped me to grow more in this program than being of service to others.

This blog, too, has helped me grow in recovery. When I was blogging every day, I felt like I was attending a large, dynamic, daily Al-Anon meeting. Picking a topic and sharing on it helped to crystalize my thoughts and sometimes revealed thoughts I didn’t realize I had. Visiting all of your blogs brought other topics to the forefront of my consciousness. Your comments and encouragement have fed me. In many ways, blogging kept me more on the beam than anything else I have done.

But more and more, I struggle to post even once a week. It’s harder still to return visits to all of you who have been kind enough to leave comments. What’s more, I find myself wanting to post on a topic only to remember that I’ve blogged about it before. I have this picture in my head of an old woman staying too late at the party, repeating stories that the other guests have heard too many times, chattering away as one then another of the guests make their excuses and leave. There is art, I think, in knowing when to go home.

There are plenty of other bloggers who are able to keep their blogs fresh year after year and sometimes I think I should be able to do so, too. But my program has taught me that comparing myself to others is not helpful. I am simply not them.

I’ve titled this blog post au revoir rather than goodbye. I do so with a nod to an early college professor of mine, Mr. Cousins, who taught English Literature. He was one of my most frustrating teachers, because no matter how hard I tried I could not get an A in his class. No matter how hard I pored over “Ode to A Grecian Urn” or “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” dissecting each piece of literature line by line, I always missed the nuances.

For the life of me I can’t think of the name of the story I’m thinking of. But I remember clearly the final irony. It was the story’s last words: au revoir. I had taken French and so I thought I understood what the phrase means. I understood it to be synonymous with goodbye. Not so, Mr. Cousins had said. The phrase, more precisely, means until we meet again. And it was that nuance that leant irony to the ending.

And so I say au revoir. Because life is long and much can happen, and for all I know God may have other plans for me. I have seen other bloggers quit only to return a short time later. I don’t believe in closing doors. At least not anymore.

Not long ago, I learned from a fellow classmate that Mr. Cousins had died. I was sorry to hear it. For all my frustrations with him, and they were many, Mr. Cousins got me to think. He taught me things that I remember to this day. And so I titled this post as I did also in the hope that even if I never return to the blogosphere, some little thing I wrote here may have resonated and become a part of your story, too.

The other half of my title is what I hope for you. That whatever life and God as you understand God has in store for you, that you, dear friends, fare well.

The Three-Mile Rest Stop

This weekend, I very quietly, very privately marked my third Al-Anon birthday.

For me, it’s one of those milestones, like the three-mile rest stop at the Grand Canyon. A place where I allow myself to rest for a few minutes and look back at how far I’ve come before continuing on my way.

The three-mile rest stop is actually a pretty good analogy because whether you are headed up or down, it’s possible to look back and feel you’ve accomplished quite a lot. At the same time, looking ahead, you are reminded of how far you still have to go. And so it is with me today.

I have settled into my hike. The initial effort of placing a body at rest into motion has passed. But I’m not tired yet. Old injuries have not flared up. My joints do not ache. I do not long for an extended rest. I have found my rhythm and it feels good.

This time last year, the going was harder. I hadn’t heard from my daughter for more than a month. Her last e-mail to me was that she was on a waiting list for a homeless shelter and she could see how people turn to prostitution.

My granddaughter was in foster care.

My work had dried up completely. My husband laid off an employee for the first time ever and the future of his business seemed uncertain. An IRS audit was not going well.

It was the first real test of my faith since I’ve been in this program.

It is a testament to this program that I could see God’s hand in all of it.

I was in no position financially to help my daughter as I once would have, even if I thought it was a good idea, which by then I didn’t. And I had no way to reach her. No phone number. No address. I could only send as encouraging a message to her via e-mail as I could muster, and pray. So that’s what I did.

Another month went by. Mothers Day came and went without a word. When I finally did hear from her, she had been sober for 50 days.

At the end of this March, she celebrated her first anniversary in AA. My granddaughter is back home.

As for me, I have so much work that I worry about meeting all my deadlines. My husband worries about hiring. We discovered an accounting error that accounts for the IRS’s concerns and are optimistic about an appeal.

Life is very good. But also very different.

The tough times changed us. We got through the lean times by selling things. We are still selling things. Only now, it feels like we are shedding the things we have outgrown or no longer need.

Our life is in transition. As we spend more and more time up at the land, we find we need less and less. Our city house is emptying, and eventually we will shed that, too.

It’s more than just the material possessions. It’s what they stand for. We are shedding a whole way of living in the world, old patterns of thought and behavior.

A dozen or so years ago, I had this dream of what my life would be. These days, I try not to have such dreams because they lead to expectations. And when I have expectations, I can’t always see the trail God has put before me.

Still. From my perspective of the three-mile rest stop, I look back and recall I had this dream. I was living in New Hampshire, so the setting for my dream was New England. My dream looked like this: I lived in a house I had designed. It was powered by solar panels and water was supplied by a well. Large picture windows looked out over a meadow. There was a barn in which I taught writing. I lived near a small town and supported myself as a writer. I had no debt. I was married and was happy.

At the time, the only part of this dream that was true is that I was living in New England. Today, the only part of the dream that is not true is that I am not living in New England.

True, our barn is an old tin thing that is missing most of its roof. It is not fit for storage, let alone teaching. But I did teach writing for many years so I do not feel unfulfilled on that score.

And our house is not perfect. We made mistakes. We learned along the way. But we built it with our own hands and we love it. To us, it has its own kind of integrity.

The funny thing is that my husband is the last person on earth I would have expected to share this dream of mine. I thought by marrying him I was accepting a very different kind of life. But it seemed the life God had put before me.

So here I am settling into the life I dreamed about all these years ago and it turns out my husband has been the driving force for all of it. And after some initial resistance on my part (yes, unaccountably, it’s true) I’ve climbed happily on board.

Isn’t life funny?

I got into recovery as we started building this house and there are so many parallels. Technobabe once told me of a book called “Building a Home with My Husband.” It was a memoir.

For years, I played with the idea of writing my own. I just didn’t know what story it was I was trying to tell. What the point was. Until now, my life had been all crisis with no resolution. Now, finally, it feels it has begun to take shape and form.

I guess you can say that now I’ve written my memoir. Only I call it my fourth step. I have no desire to publish any of it. But writing is how I make sense of things and I guess I instinctively knew at some lever I had to write out my life to begin to make sense of it.

In the process of taking that step and each step that came after, the path emerged from the mist. I’ve made it through a muddy stretch and found a resting spot with a beautiful view. There is quite a lot of trail ahead. An imposing bit of trail called the devil’s corkscrew is still to come. I know that, but for now it does not matter. I will tackle it when I get there. At this moment, I have taken nourishment and water. I feel rested and ready to move on.

I’ll see you down the trail.

Blind Faith

At a meeting recently, the chairperson shared this prayer. Several people were familiar with it and what was funny was that every one of those people thought someone they knew in recovery made it up.

It is, nonetheless, a good prayer because it so perfectly captures the fumbling in the dark feeling that we all feel from time to time in recovery. I offer it here as a gift, in the hope that it might give you comfort the next time you feel a little lost:

Dear God,

I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself. And the fact that I think I am following your will noes not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe this: I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you. I hope I have that desire in everything I do. I hope I never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it at the time.

Therefore I will trust you always for though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death, I will not be afraid because I know you will never leave me to face my troubles alone.

Amen

What The Grand Canyon Taught Me About Recovery

I’ve just completed my last planned hike in the Grand Canyon: my third in the past year.

Each hike was different. I've hiked from the North Rim and the South. I’ve hiked in and out on the same day, camped overnight and stayed in a dormitory at Phantom Ranch.

I’ve hiked in summer when it was over 100 degrees at the bottom, and in spring after snow had fallen the night before on the Rim. I’ve hiked in various levels of fitness. And I've talked to a lot of people about their experiences.

On this trip, it took me eight hours to hike out from Phantom Ranch. That’s a long time to think. And what I thought about was the lessons I had learned and how they apply to my journey in recovery. I call it “12 Steps on the Trail to Serentiy” or “What the Canyon Taught Me About Recovery.”

1. "The Canyon is in charge," a 20-year volunteer told me. "First and foremost, you have to respect that. But it also gives you things to survive. It gives you the river. It gives you shade.”

That reminds me that I’m powerless. There is a power greater than myself who is in charge. But that Higher Power gives me things. It’s up to me to recognize and use those gifts.

2. The journey has been more or less difficult, and more or less enjoyable depending on my level of fitness.

I enjoyed hiking the Grand Canyon much more when I was physically fit. The hike felt less arduous and I was better able to focus on the beauty that surrounded me. When I wasn’t in good shape, all my energy had to go toward getting out with as little damage to myself as I could manage.

In recovery, the same is true of my level of spiritual fitness. The going is easier and more enjoyable when I’m prayed up, meeting’d up, sponsored up.

3. It’s helpful to have a guide. Consult with people who have gone before you.

In recovery, my guide is my sponsor and other longtimers in the program. As my sponsor is fond of saying: “If you want to have what I have, you have to do what I do.”

4. It’s easier if you take the right tools. But remember to use them.

The same volunteer recounted a story about a couple in the advanced stages of heat exhaustion. They had plenty of water, but they hadn’t been drinking it. They were afraid if they used it, they wouldn’t have it when they needed it.

In recovery, my tools include the steps, slogans and Just for Todays. But they don’t do me any good in my backpack. I need to apply them.

5. If you don't want to get trampled, yield the trail to the mules. Try not to step in the piss they deposit in their wake. There will be puddles. Just accept it.

6. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. You can make the journey alone, but it’s easier and more pleasant when you have company.

7. Don't feed the squirrels. When you do, they become aggressive and dependent.

This is also true of doing things for alcoholics and addicts that they should do for themselves.

8. Focus on what’s in front of you. And don't worry about all the things that might go wrong. When things do go wrong, it’s never what you expect.

On this hike, I worried about a foot I had injured recently. My foot was fine. It was my knee that gave me trouble. I could almost hear God laughing. I can't possibly know what's ahead and most of the things I have worried about in my life have never happened. It's better to enjoy what's happening in this moment.

9. When you get discouraged, it’s helpful to glance over your shoulder to see how far you’ve come. Just don’t linger too long. If you’re looking back, you’re not moving forward.

10. The journey is easier and a lot more fun when you stop to rest.

I learned this on my first Canyon hike from a laminated tip sheet at a ranger station. Most hikers are afraid that stopping to rest will slow them down. The opposite is true. Resting for 10 minutes every hour allows your body to clear itself of the waste products that build up in your legs and make them feel tired.

When I read this, the slogan “Easy Does It” came to mind. I realized my habit in hiking, as in all things, was to simply plod through, no matter how tired I felt. I started practicing “Easy Does It” in my daily life. And I found it to be true. Easy got it done. And I enjoyed myself much more.

11. Be courteous to others on the trail and don’t judge others for their path. We’re all doing the best we know how. Insisting on the right of way never made anyone happy.

I learned this lesson on a training hike. I was headed uphill and two young girls were headed down. Being the one headed uphill I kept my head down and stuck to the path I was on, presuming they would yield the right of way. One didn't, but stopped directly in my way. "Excuse me," she said, annoyed. "Uphill has the right of way," I said equally annoyed, and went on my way.

"Sheesh," I heard her say as I passed. "If I'm already on the right side of the trail, where am I supposed to go?"

For a non-hiker, thinking that traffic should stay on the right was a reasonable conclusion. Yet I was annoyed. It bugged me all day. Because I was right, damn it. Wasn't I?

The next day I read an article in the paper about aggressive walkers. The expert quoted talked about those who stuck their heads down and ignored all the other people around them. He talked about others, who held to some belief that there were rules that were supposed to be followed. "Who knows where they get these ideas," he said. It stung. I was wrong and I knew it.

I had spoiled a nice hike and much of the rest of my day thinking about this girl and how right I was. Maybe I ruined hers, too. I could almost hear my sponsor say: "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?"

12. The undertaking is hard, but it's worth the effort. Be generous in sharing what you’ve learned, especially when you encounter those who are just starting out.

Heading out... of my Mind?

A friend forwarded this cartoon to me along with a whole bunch of Maxine cartoons. Of course I seized on this one....

I'm off to the bottom of the Grand Canyon for my third story assignment there in less than a year. I injured my foot several weeks ago, and it's better but still not 100 percent. So I haven't trained as I normally would--by hiking. Instead, I've been working on the eliptical trainer because it doesn't bend my foot, which isn't the same. So this trip feels a little mad.

But only a little. Honestly, I think I'm in better shape than when I made my first hike. And I'll pack my tools along with my gear. I'll be taking along my HP, of course. I'll remember Easy Does It. I will save myself from two pests, hurry and indecision. And I won't be afraid to ask for help, if I need it.

Of course, I'm packing Advil and ace wraps, too. So keep me in your thoughts and prayers. I'll return your visits as soon I'm able upon my return. Till then, take good care.